So today I offer you an FFF without any sex... whatsoever.
I KNOW, YOUR MINDS ARE BLOWN. And your first instinct is get pissed because you think I'm about to offer an FFF than won't be unbelievably bad. I laugh at your indignant skepticism. Like I would miss an opportunity to hurt your fragile little monkey brains. Besides, this is a story I've long wanted to share with you guys -- a story so interesting that the person who submitted it wished to remain anonymous.
OH, YE OF LITTLE FAITH.
(Taken from the Notes and Journals of Dr. John H. Watson, M.D; late of Her Majesty's army in Afghanistan and Boswell to the noted Consulting Detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker St., retired)
It was the mid- April that I noticed Holmes' behavior. We were sitting at the breakfast table. He had barely touched his food, nothing unusual, except that we were not on a case as far as I knew. He got up, rather stiffly, almost as if any movement pained him. I expected him to move to the armchair by the fire, but he moved back into his rooms, and shut the door.
I had watched all of this in silence. Holmes was not one to make a scene of his health, and I knew that my inquires would be rebuffed. Still the friend and doctor in me knew that he had not eaten hardly a morsel yesterday either. I quietly finished my breakfast, and headed up to get my medical bag. Holmes need to be looked at, and I knew he would never agree to any exam by another physician, or a hospital.
...Holmes was curled into a fetal position on his bed. His hands and arms firmly clenched around his stomach. He looked utterly miserable. I was calm as I approached. Setting my bag on the floor by the bed, I pulled up a chair, and sat. As much as I wanted to force him to accept my care I knew that Holmes would only shut down on me. "Holmes, what's wrong? I may be able to help." He looked at me through half closed lids, and I could see the pain glistening in those grey eyes. It killed me to see him like this, and just sit here.
"My stomach Watson, it has been hurting for a few days. The pain is near crippling. I did not want to concern you."
I moved to sit near his shoulder. He was crying from the pain. The pain I had caused, and it ripped my heart. I took a handkerchief from my pocket, and wiped his face. I needed a few answers. I gentled my voice and spoke in hushed comforting tones. "Holmes, how long has it been since you moved your bowels?"
"Four-five days," his voice was strangled. I was surprised. No wonder his stomach was so hard, and he was in such excruciating pain. I continued to soothe him with the kerchief and my voice.
"You have an impaction, old boy. I can help, but you will need several hours rest afterward." He nodded.
"How can you help?" His voice was weak.
"I will need to administer a series of enemas." I stopped at his reaction to the last word. He looked terrified. I hastened to reassure him. "They will be uncomfortable, but I'll be here, and I won't force you to take more than you can. I can easily do it here in your bed; we can protect your privacy that way. Besides once we're done and you've rested you'll feel better. You won't be alone Holmes."
And the Mystery of Sherlock Holmes' Inability to Shit has been solved! But the story has just begun.
Once the area was cleansed to my satisfaction I removed a tube of cream and a suppository. "Holmes, I'm going to give you something to help make the enemas easier."
His voice held a note of fright. "What?"
"I'll gently spread some cream into your rectum with my finger, and then I'll insert a suppository. It is medicated, and as your body heat melts it, it will help dilate your opening. The enema tubing can then pass easier and you won't have as much discomfort." I gentled my voice like I was speaking to a child. "I'll be gentle, and take it slow."
Whenever someone says "I'll be gentle" in FFF, you know something upsetting is about to happen.
I put some cream on my index finger, and separated the globes of his ass with my other. I started rubbing the cream in to the skin around his anal opening careful not to penetrate. When it was thoroughly rubbed in, I placed more on the index finger, and started to tease the rectal opening of my patient. He tensed. "It's okay, you need to relax. It shouldn't hurt. Take a deep breath, and as I push a bit in you push like you are having a movement." He didn't say anything, but I heard him take the deep breath, and as he did I placed a bit more pressure on the opening. I was starting to slip through, and then I felt Holmes push against my finger, and I was in. He gasped in shock, and I stopped. Letting him catch up to having my finger up his ass; when he relaxed again I started moving my finger around. I rubbed the walls of his anus as far as I could, and about three-quarters of the way in my index finger came into contact the edge of the fecal mass causing Holmes so much pain. I removed the index finger and quickly replaced it with a newly creamed middle finger.
Holmes was trying to relax, and I decided to help a bit more. I found the slight depression in the bottom of his rectum, and messaged it gently. He nearly jumped off the bed in surprise at first. "Good God, Watson, what are you doing?"
"Trying to help you relax a bit."
"What are you rubbing in there?"
"Your prostate. If I press harder, I could actually make you ejaculate the fluid in it, but I just want to relax you so I'm being very gentle. Settle back, you need to relax before I can give you the suppository." He rested his head deeper in the pillow, and I could feel his muscles relax around my finger. I inserted a second, and started to open him up a bit more, by scissoring my fingers. When he was wide enough I withdrew. "I'm inserting the suppository now. It'll take about twenty minutes to work completely. You'll need to lie quietly, and try to relax and rest."
If you're not disturbed that Watson has stuck his finger up Sherlock Holmes' ass in a fan fic that I've said has no sex in it, you have something wrong with you.
He watched me pull the old blanket over his exposed ass, then followed me out of his room with his eyes. I went to Mrs. Hudson, told her of Holmes' trouble, and instructed her in how to prepare the solutions I would administer to him. The first would be a half liter or so of warm oil, to loosen the impaction, the second, would consist of warm oil and water. I hoped that Holmes would be able to hold two to three liters at this point. The third would be a four liter of mild lye, it would be extremely uncomfortable, and the fourth would be four liters of water and lemon juice. It didn't take long to heat the oil, and I took about half a liter and went back to Holmes.
In case you want to try this at home.
He was sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Watson. I tried to hold it. I did."
I placed his head in my lap, and stroked his hair. "It's okay, Holmes. I'm not upset. I'll clean it up, and see if we need to give you another. It's okay. Be still, shh." I talked nonsense for a time, and Holmes quieted. When he was relaxed and breathing normally again, "You ready for me to clean you up?" He nodded. I lifted his head out of my lap, and laid it back on the pillow. "I'll be just a minute. I'm going to start a fire in here. You'll be more comfortable."
I moved into the water closet again, and got several towels, and some soap. Holmes was still upset, and his eyes were rimmed in red and bloodshot. "Close your eyes for a bit, my boy. I'm just going to clean you up." He nodded, and closed his eyes. I moved to the fire place and set a fire in the grate. Soon the room was warming, and I placed the oil in the kettle to reheat, and turned to clean Holmes backside.
I moved the blanket off to the floor, as it was soiled. He had had a bowel movement, and was quite dirty, the mess had got trapped in his between his legs and covered his testicles and bottom of his penis. I soaked a cloth in the water and then rubbed the soap vigorously on it until a nice lather was worked up. "Holmes, I'm about to touch you. We'll get this cleaned up in no time." It took a few minutes but the mess around his backside was clean. I replaced the messed cloth at his hip, and looked to see if he needed another suppository. He did.
Who shit the bed? This looks like a mystery for Sherlock Holmes!
"Holmes, I need to give you another suppository, and then I will finish cleaning you up. It'll only take a moment. Just continue to relax." I prepped another suppository, and slipped it in. Holmes was mortified at such a loss of control. I leaned over his shoulder, to whisper in his ear. "Stay still, man, I'm going to roll you on to your back. You have a bit on your genitals." He gave a quick nod. I rolled him gently on to his back.
There's feces on Sherlock's penis? A CLUE!
I set the douching kit behind him and set about restraining him so that he could not move. I had to place him on his back. I put his legs back the way they had been, and put anklets on him. I tied them to the side of the bed frame, and then placed two folded towels under his hips. He was completely exposed. I then pushed his knees out toward the bed. I then strapped them down in this position, and placed another strap across his pelvis. His lower body was now secured to the bed. He would not be able to move more than a few centimeters. I looked at him as I took the tubing up again. He nodded.
I continued to feed the tubing. Holmes instinctively pulled against the restraints, and I steeled myself. Once the tubing was in, I held the syringe upright, and started to slowly pour the warm oil in. I could only do about a quarter liter at a time. When it was filled, I depressed the plunger forcing the oil into Holmes' body. He gasped and tears were streaming down his face, but he knew better than to stay quiet if he couldn't handle it. So I continued. I slowly refilled the syringe with the last of this enema, depressed the plunger, and soon all of the oil was within Holmes' bowels.
They say the devil is in the details. When the details consist of exactly what Watson is inserting into Sherlock Holmes' anus, I suspect the saying is rather literal.
He nodded. He was having trouble, and I knew that despite the message he would start cramping again soon. I quickly removed the towels and put the bed pan in their place. I propped Holmes against my chest, so he was sitting up in a semi-reclined position, and then in one smooth motion I removed the tubing. A gush of feces and oil was immediate. I held Holmes, in my arms. He started to strain, and I relined toward the headboard pushing him a bit into my chest to take him with me. Telling him, "Don't force it Holmes. Let the pressure build again, and then relax. There is no hurry. Just relax into me, and rest." He did as I asked, and soon we were sitting up again while he expelling more. We sat like that for about ten minutes. ...
"You can rest for a few minutes while I go get the second enema ready. I'm glad that you're not in as much discomfort now, but we need to finish the series."
OH, DID YOU THINK WE WERE FINISHED? Not even close.
"Holmes is it your stomach or pelvis that hurts?"
"Pelvis," he ground out in tears. I could have kicked myself. He had such a large impaction that he hadn't been able to urinate properly either. God I was stupid. I continued to rub his abdomen with one hand while fishing in my bag for my thermometer and catheter kit. He needed relief in both areas.
This is not an erotic fan fiction. I feel I need to remind you of this. Let's skip ahead a bit after Watson inserts the catheter.
Once I had things cleaned and put to rights for the third round, I checked his urethra. It was fully dilated, and so I decided to empty his bladder before I gave him the lye. The catheter slipped in easy, and soon a stream of bloody, pussy, urine joined the used enema solution. It took a several minutes, but when no more urine drained, I removed the catheter. I cleaned him, and pulled his gown between his legs again.
Well, there's Holmes' problem. He has pussy in his endocrine system. That can't be good for a guy.
Then I left just long enough to get the mild lye solution. Sixteen depressions and fifteen minutes; it seemed like an eternity to me, and I was intensely grateful that I had drugged Holmes into a stupor.
He didn't react to the tube insertion, or the first several depressions of the solution. Around the tenth, though, he whimpered. I could tell that it was starting to soak in, and cause the intense cramping that lye causes. I continued knowing that the sooner I instilled it the sooner I could get it out of him. He was unconsciously pulling at his bonds, screaming, and crying by the time I was done. It was not even a strong lye solution, but given his body's weaken state it was agony for him.
I held him in my arms waiting with tears streaming down my own face for the requisite fifteen minutes. I hated myself. It was time to remove the tubing, and I did quickly. It didn't come out with any blood for that I was grateful for beyond measure. I rocked him back and forth talking quietly to him, it took about an hour for the lye solution to leave. He had long been quiet against me, and I checked his pulse in growing terror. It was weakened, and he still had one enema left.
I decided to do it as quickly as I could. I set up in ten minutes, had it instilled in less than twenty, and Holmes was laying on top of me again as we waited the half hour for the lemon juice to neutralize the lye. I gently removed the tubing for the last time, and set it aside, as a torrent of lemon juice and water left my dearest friend's bowels. I rocked him as had become my custom in the last hours, and it was finally over an hour later.
I removed the bedpan one last time. Then I undid and put away the restraints. Holmes was stiff from the extended confinement and physical exertion. He moaned as I gently moved his legs into a more natural position. He would be sore for a day or two. I turned him on to his side and cleaned him again. His anus looked a bit abused, and like his legs, it would be sore for a few days, but I could discern no permanent damage.
I fashioned a cloth undergarment for him. He could have drainage for the next day or two, and there was no sense in soiling his undergarments. I would have to apply salve several times a day to his rectum and keep in check his urination for the next couple of days, anyway, might as well make it as simple as possible. I did check his fever, again, after I secured his temporary undergarment. It was about 102, higher than I felt comfortable with.
Watson, let me tell you about things people should not feel comfortable with. Let's skip ahead to the next day, when Watson feels the need to give Holmes another enema, shall we?
I patted his thigh to get his attention. "Just relax Holmes and let it go. You have a catheter in at the moment." He nodded and sighed as he relaxed. When he was finished, I cleaned everything up for that and turned to applying his salve. He started to turn on to his side, and I helped him. He was nearly unconscious and despite my warning, he tensed momentarily as I spread the cool ointment.
I put some salve in and around his anus, working slowly, after I finished I cleaned my hands, and pinned his undergarment. His anus was healing nicely and he could probably return to his regular undergarments tomorrow. I bundled him into a light sheet and the throw from earlier, and picked him up again. His head found with a bit of coaxing the hollow of my shoulder, and he was asleep as I settled in the wingback by the fire for the rest of the night. My last thought before hugging my dearest friend closer to me was I was suddenly intensely glad that Holmes was so light. Something I was even more grateful for upon arising as we had stayed in the position well into the morning.
Aw. That would be sweet if we didn't have to keep hearing about you fingering his anus. Sadly, The Adventure of Holmes' Anal Troubles is almosty over. Let's skip forward a few days, and check in though, shall we?
He was getting better every day, and I knew I had to start pushing him as his doctor and friend. Tonight though, he had made great progress today and I did not want to set him back, if he would allow it I would help. "Holmes, would you like some help getting ready for bed?"
He started breathing hard and panicking. When he spoke, it was a bit hysterical. "Why, Watson, why can't I control my own body nor have enough strength to take care of myself?" I pulled him into a hug, and rubbed his back, uttering calming noises and words.
"Holmes, you've made progress every day. It is a slow process to recover from what happened. There is no shame in still needing help. Your strength and stamina return a bit each day. Within a week, you should be back on your feet, as though this never happened. Just calm down, you need to breathe..."
It was too late. Holmes had worked himself up enough to unsettle his stomach. He vomited on himself and me. I held him, and continued to comfort him as the acidic smell of vomit filled my nostrils. When he was done, I nudged him away from me to find; him, me, the bed, and floor with vomit on us. I was not angry with Holmes far far from it. I was angry with myself. He was spent after this, and there was no longer a choice, I would have to put Holmes to bed tonight.
Good, I was afraid we weren't going to hear about any other body fluids! Let's skip ahead to the end.
I never have figured out, even all these years later, what caused Holmes' intense change of heart. He still neglected his health, ate, and slept poorly during cases. Yet, whenever, from that incident on, he did manage to get sick or injured, he acquiesced to my medical ministrations with only token protests until he was healthy again. I suppose I may never know what caused it, and I find that it doesn't matter. What matters is that Holmes had found a trust in me that seems to grow even more with each passing year, and for as long as I am able I will be there for him, and I will try to be worthy of that trust until my last breath.
Yes. That's it. Someone has written a story exclusively about Sherlock Holmes getting dangerously constipated, and the details of Watson helping him recover. That's all. No sex. The author didn't want any kinky stuff. They just wanted to write about Sherlock Holmes shitting the bed, getting enemas, and Watson applying salve to his anus. Why, that's not unusual at all. But you might have noticed todays' FFF was a little more disjointed than usual. That's because I edited it. A lot.
What you have just read is a small selection of a story about Sherlock Holmes getting constipation. The actual story is over 13,000 words.
Seriously, see for yourselves. 13,000 words. About Sherlock Holmes getting constipation. And shitting the bed. And getting cream applied to his sore anus.
Guys, this is absolutely one of the most fucked up things I have ever read. I know we've read some awful stories about horrible sex acts, but no matter how depraved they were and how disgusted we were, we understood that those stories turned someone on, even if we didn't know why.
This... this is a whole new level of depravity. If Holmes and Watson had just fucked at any point in this story, it would have been less perverse. But they didn't. The author only wanted to write about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes' asshole and urethra being blocked with feces. THAT IS FUCKING TWISTED.
What did I cut out, you ask? A lot of details that make the more akin to actual Holmes stories, and thus infinitely more disturbing. Watson diagnosing the problem, dealing with the housekeeper, Holmes' lengthy recovery, a visit from Holmes' brother Mycroft, and, of course, the administrations of every. Single. Enema.
I'm sure some of you are still disappointed this wasn't dirty, but man, this freaks me out on a whole different level from most FFFs. That someone would would spend their time -- and so much time -- writing about this subject is fucked up on an unparalleled degree. Who would do this, and for fuck's sake, why?! Let's see Sherlock Holmes solve that.